Written by Lawrence Weschler
L.A. Glows, 1998
The day of that infamous slow-motion Bronco chase — actually, it was already past sundown here in New York as I sat before the glowing TV in our darkening kitchen, transfixed by the unfurling stream of boband-wafting helicopter images, hot tears streaming down my cheeks — my eight-year-old daughter gazed for a while at the screen and then over at me, at which point, baffled and concerned, she inquired, "What’s wrong, Daddy ? Did you know that guy?"
"What guy?" I stammered, surfacing from my trance, momentarily disoriented. "Oh, no, no. I didn’t know the guy. I don’t give a damn about the guy. It’s that light! That’s the light I keep telling you girls about." You girls: her mother and her. That light: the late-afternoon light of Los Angeles — golden pink off the bay through the smog and onto the palm fronds. A light I’ve found myself pining for every day of the nearly two decades since I left Southern California.
© 1998 Lawrence Weschler; The New Yorker, February 23, 1998